


Potential System Failure

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Humor, Ice Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 13:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Vetinari must have completely run out of flashy rewards to give him. Well, it had to happen eventually. </p><p>Can be read as a stand-alone piece or as the prequel to 'Emergency Protocol.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Potential System Failure

**Author's Note:**

> Began as a drabble about icecream, became a fic about summer.

The day was scorching hot in Ankh-Morpork which meant that the city itself stunk to high heaven, the crime rate was unusually low and Commander Vimes was wearing sandals. Sam Vimes was in a good mood because for the first time in what felt like years, he was on proper patrol. There hadn’t been such a hot summer in decades and most of the wealthier citizens had left to stay at their summer lodgings, with their relatives in other cities or countries or even continents. Those who were left in the city were those too poor to leave, too busy to leave or simply too stubborn to leave, and Sam Vimes had once fitted all of those qualifications, and now made up for no longer being too poor by being doubly busy and stubborn. 

Most of his officers were too exhausted by the heat to bother with polishing their armor or following him discreetly. Instead the only saluted him when he passed by, held onto flasks containing lemonade and focused keeping alert and crime rates down. Even the unlicensed thieves were keeping a low profile like most of the city’s residents and were most likely either single-mindedly searching for some shade or actually buying something that would cool them down. Vimes narrowly escaped stepping on a bunch of violets that had managed to grow in between the cracks in the pavement, his eyes trained on the crowd ahead.

It was the sort of day where just breathing felt like continually setting your own lungs on fire while your body was on the verge of shutting down from the heat. But that didn’t stop people from watching some government sanctioned street art. Some famous painter from Quirm had managed to convince both Vetinari and the majority of the Guilds to allow him and his mates to paint one of the miraculously untouched walls near the Post Office to bring some more culture to town. Street vendors shouted at the top of their voices, advertising their merchandise, from roasted nuts to the new iced Klatchian coffee, which was sold in special cooled thimbles. He’d seen people cry with joy at the sight of one of those thimbles and scurry away to the nearest inch of shade.

Nobby Nobbs and Sergeant Colon were chatting with a elderly lady who was selling some kind of a drink made from apples and meanwhile also keeping an eye on Dibbler, who was as usual selling his horrible sausages. There were even a few people hovering around Dibbler’s cart, possibly for the shade, possibly out of desperation for any kind of nourishment to snap them out of the heavy inertia that followed staying in the sun for too long.

Vimes had finally arrived at this destination, and lit a cigar as his eyes adjusted to the scene in front of him. Cheery Littlebottom walked past Vimes, saluting him smoothly as she made her way to the crowd towards the Guild of Alchemists. Vimes could see the colorful flowers in her beard and the intricate woven pattern on her Watch regulation sandals. The cobblestones looked like they would begin melting any second now.

The crowd was huge, watching the four artists paint the huge white wall of the newly renovated and restored hotel. As he drew closer to get a better view of the paining, the air became humid to the point of being solid. The images the artists were painting, a large forest and a river had begun to blend seamlessly into each other as the crowd watched. One of the artists was adding some flying owls and bats to the very top of the painting and he was held up by various ropes around his middle.

Commander Vimes was glad he was wearing sandals, for the heat from the cobblestones underneath his feet only made him feel warm instead of burning his feet like it had when he had been a kid in Cable Steet. Several pedestrians around him were pushing each other violently in order to get nearer to one of the stands where various merchants were selling cool lemonade and ginger beer. Vimes stepped towards them, ready to arrest them for Behavior Likely to Disturb the Peace, when they all abruptly stopped moving and edged respectfully away while looking over his shoulder. 

Vimes turned around and saw that Inspector Pessimal was being handed a small bowl of caramel ice cream by Rufus Drumknott, who was holding his own bowl of vanilla ice cream in his other hand. There was the faintest hint of sprinkles on top of Drumknott’s ice cream. Perhaps he was feeling adventurous.

These people must have had to deal with one of Pessimal’s inspections and didn’t want him to notice them. Vimes doodled their likeness in his notebook as they hurried away, immersed in getting the lady’s hat just right when he sensed that there was someone behind him.

“Good afternoon Commander,” said Lord Vetinari, “what a beautiful day in our fine city.”

And then the Patrician unceremoniously handed him some kind of icecream-thing. A scoop of light brown ice cream was located in some kind of a thin waffle shaped like a cone. For a split second, Vimes couldn’t shake the thought that he was having a sunstroke-induced hallucination and should locate the nearest lemonade stand so he could pour a pitcher of it over his head.

“A reward for arresting those three serial killers last week, Sir Samuel,” Lord Vetinari explained, handing him several brightly colored tissues. Lord Vetinari was watching the crowd, doubtlessly aware of all their motivations for being there and privy to all sorts of information. He was smiling.

Lord Vetinari must have completely run out of flashy rewards to give him. Well, it had to happen eventually. 

No titles left, no raises and no staff to be added to his Watch. Nothing at all.

Vimes stared distrustfully at the ice cream for a long minute before sampling it.

“This ice cream tastes like coffee, sir,” Vimes said, glaring at his lordship, who that was still looking at the crowd. “Has there been some sort of a mix up at the booth?”

Vimes had no time to recover from an accidental dose of Klatchian coffee. He had a job to do.

“It is necessary to keep you alert, Sir Samuel,” Lord Vetinari replied, “and Leonard De Quirm just perfected and introduced this hot-milk-and-fast-coffee-with-milk-foam recipe to the public a week ago. It appears to be rather popular and adaptable. If you don’t like it you can give it back.”

“Are you going to eat it, sir?” Vimes asked, doubling his grip on the brittle waffle cone. 

Vetinari glanced at him with a faint glint of amusement in his eyes. There were days when Vimes wondered if all his training as a policeman had ultimately rewarded him by making him sufficiently perceptive to decipher this man’s moods. It had proved useful at several diplomatic functions.

“It would be a shame if it went to waste,” Lord Vetinari said, reaching into his pocket. A small bright blue device gleamed in his palm. Vimes stared at the device, wondering if he should slap it away from his lordship’s grasp and let it be crushed by the crowd but decided against it when the other man looked at it in a thoughtful manner. Vetinari pushed a small button on the side of the device and it made a strange whirring sound. Vimes could feel a gust of wind on his face when his lordship moved it around experimentally.

Some kind of a new invention, a portable, pocket sized fan Vimes decided as his lordship pushed several buttons at once which made the whirring sound louder and the gust of wind more powerful. At least it wouldn’t be used to kill other people just yet, unlike the countless normal fans that concealed all sorts of pins and knives and pointy things used by Assassins.

Vimes bit into his ice cream.

For a split second, he could see the horrified look in Vetinari’s eyes as the Patrician realized what Vimes had done. Lord Vetinari’s mask of indifference was securely placed back on and he continued watching the crowd.

Vimes kept his eyes on the crowd as he chewed, the huge bite of ice cream finally soothing the worst effects the heat had had on his brain, simultaneously freezing his teeth. His lordship was pointedly ignoring the way Vimes was enjoying his ice cream in favor of watching the painters practice their art while moving the fan around so that the gust of wind would cool down both his neck and face.

“Kindly do not arrest everyone in this square for littering and Malicious Lingering, Commander,” Vetinari said as Vimes began eating the waffle cone itself.”Most of the clerks in the office are on holiday and we don’t want those who are left to overwork themselves in this heat by dealing with much of the paperwork that would be the inevitable result.”

“No, sir.” Vimes managed, feeling the caffeine begin to race though his veins. He edged the tiniest bit closer to Vetinari, enjoying the machine-made gust of wind. ”I’ll just arrest those that are blatantly breaking the law.”

“Hm,” said Lord Vetinari, adjusting his sleeves minutely, presumably to cool his wrists. The man was still dressed in his black robes with all the trimmings. Vimes felt the sudden urge to start a betting pool on the likelihood of the Patrician wearing black sandals on days like this, but shook his head to clear away the thought.

“Perhaps you would like something to cool down, sir?” Vimes asked, crunching the last bit of his ice cream cone, “there is a very good lemonade stand over there.”

Lord Vetinari was silent, as if he was honestly contemplating it. Vimes could hear Drumknott describing his new filing cabinets to an attentive Inspector Pessimal. They were both still enjoying their ice cream as the crowd around them made appreciative sounds as the artists continued to paint.

“Might be a bit too risky,” Vimes said, brushing away the last crumbs on his fingers with the tissues and throwing them in the nearest bin. “But if you are poisoned, then there will be plenty of witnesses and I will be very quick to reach the scene of the crime.”

“I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing, Commander,” Lord Vetinari replied, “although it’s not necessary at the moment. Nonetheless, it is good to know that you care so much about me.”

This was not a conversation they should be having in the middle of a crowd full of people who might take that information and use it for their own twisted purposes. Anyone could be listening.

“Don’t go around almost dying in front of me then, sir,” Vimes said, “Drumknott sent me a clacks message this morning that I’ve got a scheduled meeting with you tonight and if you get poisoned it will ruin both of our plans for the evening.”

“That would indeed be a tragedy,” Lord Vetinari said. “Although the idea of me dying in your arms might have a certain appeal to future poets and historians, Sir Samuel.”

“Let’s not give them the satisfaction, sir,” Vimes said as they began to make their way through the crowd. Drumknott and Pessimal followed behind them, still talking animatedly about filing. For a brief moment Lord Vetinari leaned on his shoulder as a black carriage stopped in front of them. Drumknott had a quick word with the driver and stepped inside. Lord Vetinari followed with a quick nod, signaling the end of their discussion.

Vimes watched the carriage drive away, listening to the sounds of the crowd around him. Then he went back to work, signaling Angua and Cheery (who had returned from the Alchemist’s Guild with more popcorn than she could carry) to follow him towards four thieves who were reaching into the pockets of a tiny old lady. He’d never have seen it if he’d been feeling bleary because of the sun. He recognized their faces from an iconograph the Quirm Watch had sent him several months ago.

Vimes started to run, aided by the coffee and the surging adrenaline. The crowd parted as his watchmen hurled themselves towards the criminals, shouting and alarming every other potential thief in the vicinity.

Vimes sped up, feeling his sandals pound the hot cobblestones. It was going to be a good day for intercity politics. He’d make damn sure it was.


End file.
